Monday, April 27, 2009

These windows don’t open.They have the correct appendages:A small white crank that spins freely,Unmoored to screw’s threads inside;A latch that clicks like an on/off switchInto place. These windows don’tOpen, but it seems that they once did,Allowing the woman who lived hereBefore me to stick an arm intoThe crisp, bright air, palm down,Wrist flexed as she admired the sunlightGlancing off her nails, as a tailor mightMarvel at the sheen of fabric before cutting.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Pursed is what your lips areAs you amble through town.Your gait claims the terrainAnd your lips press againstOne another, not like a purseBut like the slim mouthOf a purse, sealed tight.As you walk, your trousersSwish, the gasp of a handbag’sClasp as it inhales, closing.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Silver wristwatch, camera, sunglassesThat fold into themselves, lens over lens:The gadgetry of fatherhood facilitates seeingAnd an awareness of time. I saw a manCarry his baby in a sling across his torso—Unhaired head on flannelled chest,Small round body draped low againstHis father’s belly.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Terms to describe the borders of one’s dressHave altered. When did you last (if ever) observea bracelet-length sleeve, cropped to expose the forearm?V-neck, polo, crew we know, but whatOf Queen Anne, portrait, Sabrina? Tea-lengthHas unravelled to mini, baring thighWhere the calf or ankle once peeked through. At the hem, or neck, or sleeve of any garment,Limits rise and fall, a stage curtainShowcasing skin, a body in the world.

Friday, April 10, 2009

It’s been years since I’ve driven a car—six,Since I moved to the city. I’ve grown to love the cabs,As we all have. Come on, admit it—Cabs provide a kinder, gentler versionOf servitude. Butlers gave wayTo smiling concierges in hotels,Cooks have pristine prestige, clangingPots and cutlery proudly. We still have maids,And their knees still ache, but they’re paid by the hour,Or should be. The taxi driver is ourValet. I’ve toppled into black back seatsCrying, drunk, giddy, absorbedIn processing the day, the cool cityAir streaming into the carWhile the driver asks, “Where do you want to go?”

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Her heels lend her three and a half inches.On nude-colored, patent leather stilts,The view is different. In the crampedElevator chock-a-blockWith trench-coated men, she stands tall,Reaches an endless arm, taperedFinger to punch the button for 8.Her arrival chimes, robotic, majestic,And she swoops through the doors down the carpeted hall,Her pumps crushing the tan plush.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Distressed: your favorite treatment for jeans and leatherRarely registers across your fair face.But, like the brand new denim that is pounded and streaked,Scratched and bleached, you undergo treatments.To benefit your surfaces. Artificial sun in which you bake,Elixirs you apply under eyes and neck,Dustings and powders in which you bask to bronze,To darken, to treat so that you might appearAs if your environment affects you.

Monday, April 6, 2009

She was noisy. Velvet skirt swish.Bangle clang. Stiletto clip-clop.Even in the quiet moments.The creak of leather gloves,Shuffle of glossy papers in the theatre,At the doctor. Not even our carpetedHome could muffle her. From the shower,The thud of toppled bottles, orchestralGurgles and yawns. Loud, thunderous,Raucous, rowdy, call her what you will,She was bigger than her skin and bones.

Friday, April 3, 2009

A man staggers into a mansion, clutching a ragged felt bear.He holds it by the threadbare paw and heads for the liquor cabinet.Faceted decanters fling the light back into his eyes.The reflected sun feels like splintered glass.Any and all bottles are ready at hand, waiting for himTo make a choice (scotch), to take the top off and pour.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The city is freckled, pockmarked with openingsthat lead to subterranean chasms:manholes mar the streets like giant thumbprints,grates grab heels in their lattice,sewers and drains exhale white cloudsof god knows what. What happensdown there, in inky tunnels and bricked caves?Are there rats? Villains in cloaks?More likely, workers in bright orange suits,Astronauts of the earth.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

When the warm weather blows like tumbleweed Across August and September,And the black blanket of night is more eagerTo cloak us all,I’ll remember summer in the lingering pressureBetween my toes, my flip flop’s phantom fingerGnawing, insistent at my instep.